


Chasing ghosts

by BehindTheCellarDoor



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alcoholism, Conspiracy Theories, Gen, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Character Death, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, angst and happy memories, slices of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-01-09 08:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindTheCellarDoor/pseuds/BehindTheCellarDoor
Summary: Snippets and vignettes of Robert's life, the one he hides. The bad days full of memories of Marilyn, the good days full of memories of his daughter. The days of smiling, the days of crying; the days we don't see, that no one sees. The ghosts that Robert chases every night and every day.





	1. A Blade And A Tape

**Author's Note:**

> This is majorly a compendium of several headcanons I have for Robert, including his past, relationship with Marilyn and Val, and his current state, told mostly through his present and his relationship with his memories.  
> -check the end of the work for more notes of where these headcanons come from-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert watches an old movie that brings back memories, a blade twists dangerously in his hand.

Robert sat on his bed, the lights were off and the room was only partially lit by the TV and a few stray rays on moonlight coming through the balcony. An old movie played, not that old but for him it was a memory coming through the mist of the years; it was one of the few VHS tapes of it that were still on existence. The actress -not the lead- was having a close up as she yelled at another character on stage, Robert felt the yells were directed at him. Her eyes were black as well as her hair, thick and neatly tied in a big braid hanging over her shoulder. Her voice was firm, her complexion perhaps a tad lighter than Robert’s, her features native-american. Robert smiled at the picture, a sad smile. Then the camera turned to the lead and the story moved on. 

He was sitting in his underwear, his knife open and on his hands. He twirled the blade on his fingers, an empty bottle of whiskey on his bedside table. The frame changed to a desert, a man on a horse shooting at someone; he knew the scene by memory, line by line, he knew that the woman of black hair would be back on screen, briefly, before the man in the jacket and the horse killed her. He knew the movement, how he would pull the trigger without looking at her face, how he would pick up the blonde lead after and ride into the distance. He knew the movie blow by blow.

He looked at the blade, shinning, inviting. He looked at his legs and then back at the knife. He heard the gunshot coming from the screen and he closed his eyes, reached for the remote, and turned it off. He was left in silence, in darkness. He ran his fingers over the scars, he breathed in and gripped the small fold-out knife. He heard a whine and turned to the sound; Betsy had climbed onto the bed. She nudged his leg with her head and whined again, looking at him with droopy eyes. 

Robert closed the blade, put it away and cleaned his eyes before curling on his side and scratching behind the little Boston Terrier’s ears. The dog curled up next to him, and licked his face. He smiled and scratched under her chin, slowly falling asleep, the tape still going on the machine.


	2. A Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert plays a David Ackles record... the lyrics resonate too much with his life. It is one of those nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to listen to what Robert is listening in this vignette, go here: [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBVBYlhO56M)

_I know this road, it leads straight into Cairo, twenty two miles straight ahead. I can’t I can’t walk down this road to Cairo…They’re better thinking I’m dead._

David Ackles sang to Robert back from the record player as he laid on his couch staring at the ceiling. He wondered if he would ever get to Cairo, and took another long drink from the bottle. _Times change but they sure go slow,_ the voice was saying now. He wondered how many years would he have to sail down that river until times changed again. Another drink from the bottle, another song.

He looked around the living room; the platinum albums mounted on the wall, memories of times when those things mattered. The bottles of liquor across the floor stared at him with accusatory eyes only a paradox could have, and the ones on the cabinet he couldn’t see but were surely singing sad tunes; the wines and the fancy drinks he never opened but he still bought every year. The movies in their shelves organized by year; amalgamation of memories of him and her… He knew that road and where it led.

Robert stood up and walked upstairs, the marks of where framed pictures had once been hang still lingered on the wall, nasty reminders. He stood in front of the one door he wouldn’t open. It had been closed for almost eight years now, and he dared not open it, he dared not disturb the memories, tarnish them more. There were stickers on the wood he dared not take off. Unicorns and rainbows at the bottom, then band logos and cats, STAY OUT tape and stickers with phrases on them, another rainbow, a skull sticker, then there where three letters painted in black with pink details. V A L  
_This house I’ve been here before but there’s no answer when I knock. Just wind no sound anymore; my key won’t fit into the lock._ A drink from the bottle, the liquor running low, he running slower down that road.

He climbed down the stairs and entered the kitchen. There was little to no food… he remembered a time when the pantry was stocked, when the fridge had something more than condiments and beer, when laughs and the smell of pineapple cake filled the now decadent room.

_His name is Andrew. He works in a canning factory. He doesn’t have a friend. He chooses to wait alone for his life to end._

Robert walked back to the living room and threw himself on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He took one last drink, the bottle was empty, the record was almost gone too, the voice singing back to him like a reminder or a prophecy; he wasn’t sure. His life was a spiral. The things he had gone through he knew he would go through again. The music echoed in the empty house, the impossibly empty house. Not even Betsy had come to lick his hand this night. He was alone in a road he knew he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t keep on walking on. He had been on the road for a long time. He had been on the road for far too long. Robert put the bottle down and closed his eyes.

The man sang to him back from the record player, and he might as well had said his name.

_My name is Andrew. I work in a canning factory._  
_I do not have a friend._  
 _I choose to wait alone for this life to end._


	3. Missed Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert wakes up to strange messages in his voicemail.

Robert had been sleeping for most of the day, his phone silenced and a pillow over his head which pounded with the effects of a terrible hangover. It was night again and he could feel the particular smell of the sweat of an alcoholic already staining his sheets. He took the pillow and rested his head on it, back to the ceiling; he could no longer sleep and he didn’t feel like waking up, so he just stared at the bed frame. The cellphone vibrated and he let it go to voicemail before finally reaching to see who it had been. He looked at his alarm clock, almost eight pm, could have been Mary. He looked at the little screen on the outside of his flip phone. 

_13 missed calls_

He frowned. Had something happened? Had he been asleep for more than he thought? He flipped the phone open and checked the incoming calls. Thirteen missed calls from the same number, marked only as UNKNOWN.   
The first call had been at 9:36am and the last one, the one he had heard and didn’t pick up, at 7:36pm. 

He called his voice mail, 13 new messages. Usually it would say the number it was from and the date and hour, instead, this time it went straight to the message. There was a man on the other side, his voice devoid of any kind of emotion.

_3 6 99_

Three or four seconds of silence followed and then there was the unmistakable sound of a phone clicking, ending a call. Robert listened to the message again, quickly picking up a piece of scrap paper, and jotting down the numbers just in case. He deleted the message. The next one also went straight to the voice of the man.

_3 3 7 3 6 99_

Silence.

Click.

When Robert deleted the thirteen message, he had a paper full of numbers, the voice of the man in his head, and no idea of what it meant. He tried to dial back the number, but the number didn’t exist. He checked the registry call again… there was one call marked as UNKNOWN too, from 55 minutes before the first missed call. A call that had been taken. His mind raced trying to find a memory, and there was the voice of the man and the only few words he managed to said before Robert hung up, drunk.

_YOU HAVE A DEBT_

Robert stared at the phone, then back at the numbers, and then he put the pillow over his head. He would deal with it in the morning.


	4. Picture of October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s October. Robert hates the month of October. October is the month where the guilt threatens to swallow him whole. October is the month of his biggest mistakes. October is when Robert flips through a photograph album.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Attempted Suicide Referenced, Substance Abuse referenced, Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of death.

It’s October. Robert hates the month of October. He muddles through it and he can feel it burn his sides as the weeks pass, he can feel the burn of whiskey down his throat like a lesson he never quite learned, a reminder or a punishment he is not quite sure. October is the month where he wakes up to a bottle, says hello to it in the evening, and sits down in the floor of his room or the kitchen or the living room clutching it and hoping that the last swig he takes is the last he ever does. 

During October, Robert buys a bottle of pills and sits in front of them every night, some years he takes them but they are not enough. During October Robert stares down the barrel of a gun he is not cleaning, he tastes metal and salt and never pulls the trigger. October is the month where the guilt threatens to swallow him whole. October is the month of his biggest mistakes. October is when he buys flowers and walks miles and sits over cold stone for all the night as long as it is, it’s the month when his finger hovers over the call button with his daughter’s name highlighted but he never presses it. 

It’s October, and Robert is sitting on the floor of his bedroom with a bottle next to him. He opens the drawer of the bedside table on _her_ side, and pulls out an old photo album that never got to be completed. He thumbs through the first pages and the first photograph is old, black and white but he remembers the colors. He is smiling in a dumb pastel and ill-fitted suit, his brown hair combed to the side, and next to him, with her arm hooked on his, smiles a girl in a blue pastel dress with beads on it, her black hair sporting a tan feather hanging close to her ear. Senior Prom night, Marilyn and him had been dating since the first year of High School. 

Under it there is a picture of Robert kissing Marilyn on the cheek, and she is laughing. They are standing on the grass of her art college, her first week as a college student, something he would never be. The next photographs are from plays they had been on, still from movies where she had acted, pictures on sets where Robert had done stunts, a picture of him smiling next to Marilyn in front of an apartment building in Brooklyn, their first flat, he had taken a loan and had worked for three years to afford it. 

The next couple of pictures, in full color, are from his wedding day. They are twenty one and smiling and Marilyn is wearing a white dress with a beautifully weaved blanket on her shoulders, the persistent feather on her hair. He is wearing a suit and his head is held high. They had played _A Wither Shade Of Pale_ as they danced. Robert smiles at the album and drinks. There is a picture of them kissing at the altar hidden in the Amélie DVD downstairs. Her favorite movie. 

In the next picture, Robert is holding up Marilyn in the air, she is wearing a gown and cap and holding her diploma. Her college graduation, he had never been more proud. The next pictures are again stills from movies, from sets, from recording rooms, them smiling next to actors well known, others who -like them- faded in the memory, and with each passing photograph the smiles seemed more fake. He thumbs through all of them until he lands on a bright picture. The smiles are genuine as they hold baby Val, cradled in Marilyn’s arms, he had barely made it on time to the hospital, but those things didn’t show in photographs. 

He painfully continues flipping through the album, he was in a few of the pictures, and in the ones he was, he was holding a can of beer or a shot glass. The next picture is the three of them standing in front of their new house at the end of a cul-de-sac a couple states over, this house. Val is ten, wearing a denim overall with patches she sewed on, a bright purple sweater and a smile with braces. The house looks so different. The lawn is green, the paint outside is not chipping. There are flowers outside and two cars parked; Marilyn’s Thunderbird and his pick-up truck. Then another picture, their first gathering with the neighbors who had welcomed them kindly. He is standing with a beer in his hand next to a man of blond hair and his wife, Marilyn to his side, Val in front of them. Brian is there too, and Hugo. Val is the only child in the picture between a sea of adults. Robert is wearing a baby blue sweater.

Under that one, a picture of him and Mary smiling in front of a newly open bar. There are less and less pictures, and their smiles are again fake. The last one where Marilyn appears is on Val’s fourteen birthday. Then there is a white page. The next pictures are scarce, Val holding a high school diploma and Robert at her side, he is smiling, she is not, he is holding a bottle on his hand, he is drunk. That is the last one. 

No one takes pictures of the fights, no one takes pictures of the missed birthdays, of the exhibitions missed, of the drunken father passed out in the front lawn, of the funerals, of the college graduation he wasn’t invited to, of the days Val had walked in the rain because Robert had forgotten to pick her up, of the nights he would come back bleeding from the woods, slurring how he had to find what had killed her even if the only thing he had to do was look at a mirror. No pictures of when Val left, no pictures of them together, no pictures of the night of the fight, the one about the alcohol and the drugs and the knives... the fight that had led him to a bar that had led him to call his best friend that had led her to send her husband because she had just given birth to a little boy. And that had led to stupid drunk decision, two weeks of stupid drunk and sober decisions 

There were no pictures of him coming clean about it, no pictures of him sleeping on the couch. Of him being drunk out of his head in a bar stool at Jim and Kim’s... he didn’t need a picture to remember how Neil had taken his keys, how he had called Marilyn to please come pick him up. Of how he was still drunk when they called him, when he had dropped to his knees sobbing when he got the news, of the face of Val when she had got the news, her father still not completely sober.

It is October and Robert hates October. He puts the album back where it belongs drops on his side of the bed, looking at the other side, still made. Glancing at the door still closed since Val had left. It is October and Robert wishes he could go back to that first October and change everything, maybe go back to 9th grade and let the kids bully him so he doesn’t meet Marilyn, so they don’t get married, so she stays alive. He knows the gun is under the bed, he goes to get it and glances to the picture framed next to his lamp. He didn’t take that picture; a cutting from a magazine where Val had been featured two years ago. He looks at the picture of his daughter, he gives her a sad smile and puts the box back under the bed. It’s October and that picture is the only reason he doesn’t go.

It’s October and -like all Octobers-, nursing a bottle or whiskey, Robert hopes when the next October rolls again, things will be different.


	5. A Tree At Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some nights, when Robert wants to be peaceful and think back on the good things, he goes into the woods and whittles for hours. Sometimes his mother comes in memories and carries with her poems.

Robert has a knife in his hand and a piece of wood on the other, his back against an old tree deep in the middle of the woods, what he thought was the middle for he had never explored them all. He carved carefully, shaving pieces off smoothly, applying just the right pressure with his thumb as he dragged the blade down. When he whittled he didn’t have to think about the things in his life eating him up. When the knife was on the wood he didn’t have to think about anything but whatever he was trying to pull away from it, the figures danced in front of his eyes and just followed the dotted lines they traced for him. He liked to think when he took away those small pieces he was also taking with them a milligram off the heavy rock of guilt and remorse he carried. That maybe, just maybe, if he carved enough he would one day walk straight again and leave the bottle down and press the call button and be the man he wanted to be but that he denied it existed beyond the imagination and the wild dreams of someone who had loved him despite him.

He carved, and when he did so, he was at peace. Just the sound of a blade between the wind venturing across the tall leaves of the trees, the branches creaking above his head, the tiny sound of animals moving in the night. The sound of silence, as contradictory it might sound. He remembered a fragment of a short poem his mother used to recite in spanish when he was a child, he knew many poems she had taught him, and others he had read later... but this fragment of this little poem resonated with him on nights like this.

 _I, that I grew up inside a tree_  
_should have a lot to say,_  
_but I learned so much silence_  
_that I have a lot to not speak._

He sat against that tree and remembered the trees made of cement in his little block in Brooklyn. His old apartment building, the one were he had grown up. He remembered resting his back against the lamp posts outside, carving in a piece of wood he had found in an empty lot a couple blocks over, with knife he had taken from his father’s room. He remembered the smell of his mother’s food before she passed, how she too shaved off pieces of potato to put in the soup along the beans, how she carved and dug inside her purse to give him and his older brother a few coin or to to buy themselves candy. He remembered the days his father asked for pasta, how he took over the kitchen and grated cheese over everything and complained they didn’t have enough money to buy more meat for meatballs. He remember sitting in the room he shared with his brother, who he didn’t name, shaving pieces of wood with a stolen knife and closing the door so he could practice his dance. How he played outside with the neighboring kids as they pretended to be spies like in the movies. Fond memories, memories that brought a melancholic smile to his face.

Robert sat with his eyes on the wood and the tree bark on his back, focused on discovering what the piece wanted to say. And as he whittled, he remembered with a bittersweet smile when the years rolled and he wasn’t allowed to go outside at night, when he took the subway to his theater classes that he paid with money he earned cleaning a convenience store after school, the guardian angels that standing at the entrance of the wagons and the stations. The thought of his brother came in passing, the year he first joined the forces, but he had been a soldier way before that. He didn’t think of that when he whittled, he thought of that when he sat alone on the bed of his truck overlooking the city, or when he sat alone on his bed overlooking a sea of empty bottles. No. When he whittled only peace surrounded him. He grew up inside a tree, he repeated to himself. He had grown up inside a tree made of cement, but it didn’t matter. A tree was a tree, and even if it wasn’t one he could pretend it was.

Robert finished the piece he had been carving. It was a small figurine of a woman holding a book. He put it beside him, next to other three figures; one of a man with an unforgiving smile, one of a kid empty handed and one of a young man with a rifle. He looked up to the night sky, the already dead stars shining over him, and he left the figures resting against the tree, against the wood. He left them there like one leaves an old pair of shoes, hoping someone who needs them will find them and hoping to not have to see them again; the same worn out shoes, the same carvings he had done in another night, against another tree. He walked back into the woods and towards his back, the knife back to the pocket that reclaimed it, and as he walked through the night of the forests of his memories, with a sad smile of hope and realization, he reclaimed the ending of another poem his mother recited.

 _It is only a deserted dining room,_  
_and around it there are expanses,_  
_sunken factories, pieces of timber_  
_which I alone know,_  
_because I am sad, and because I travel,_  
_and I know the earth, and I am sad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems by chilean poet Pablo Neruda.  
> HC: Robert's mother was mexican and his father was italian. Robert speaks spanish.


	6. October 12th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the anniversary of Marilyn's death. A retelling of what happened, and a chronic of what happens today.

Robert woke up that morning on the couch, it had been three days since he had told Marilyn about his short-lived affair with their next door neighbor. She had cried, he had cried and asked for forgiveness, he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He didn’t see it, but he heard footsteps upstairs as Val ran back to her room from her hiding spot in the stairs. He was lucky Marilyn had not thrown him out; he deserved that and more, he had betrayed her for the first time after almost three decades of being together... and all because of a fight. A fight that wasn’t really a fight because she was right. A fight about how he drank too much and was barely around for them, of how she had found drugs stashed behind the cleaning supplies under the bathroom sink even after he had promised to never dwell in that after they had decided to leave New York. A fight about how he spent too much money on knives he used to throw, on how she didn’t agree on Val learning to throw knives at her age. A fight about many things, where many things had been said and led him to that bar and to Joseph.

Robert woke up that morning and offered to make breakfast. Marilyn just stared at him and pointed to the clock, she had already eaten. Val walked past him with her backpack on her shoulders, he tried to kiss her goodbye but she gave him a look full of hate. It was understandable. He made himself breakfast and ate alone in the kitchen, staring at an old drawing Val had made, stuck with magnets to the fridge. He ate in silence and went to their room, but the door was closed. He took the hint. He wrote a note to Marilyn, an apology, and left it inside the Amélie DVD she was surely going to watch later. He picked up his jacket, and headed out on his pick-up truck. Marilyn’s Thunderbird parked next to it.

He drove to the edge of town, to the woods, and sat in silence on the bed of his truck watching the waves in the distance, the sun slowly dipping in the horizon, his hands occupied on a piece he was carving for Marilyn. Val’s first carving in his jacket pocket, always. When the sun was almost gone and the sky looked red, he drove back into town and straight into Jim and Kim’s. He drank, and drank, and drank as the hours grew darker; he drank until he couldn’t make coherent thoughts, until Neil had to take his car keys. He grunted at Neil, good ‘ol Neil, and called his home. It was close to midnight. Marilyn picked up after his third attempt, she sounded both upset and sleepy. He slurred about his keys, about the truck, about the apologies he still had to say. He told her he loved her, and there was silence on the other side of the line, then a quiet _I’ll be over there in 15 minutes, Robert._ Robert. Not Robbie. Just Robert. He drummed his fingers on the bar, then simply rested his head on his arms. Time passed slow. When he looked up at the clock above the liquors, it had been half an hour since his call. He waited. And waited. And then his phone rang, with the voice of a man on the other side, and the worst news he would ever receive. 

***

Robert woke up that morning on the couch, a bottle resting by his side. He took a shower, he offered no one to make breakfast and he ate alone and in silence in his kitchen, staring at the drawing. There was no one to kiss goodbye. He picked up his jacket and wallet. He walked downtown to the flower store, the guy at the front desk saw him and Robert didn’t even had to ask. He paid for his small bouquet; blue bells, blue hydrangeas, and a couple white roses. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they were her  favorites. 

He walked miles until he reached the cemetery. The guard saw him and nodded. Robert nodded back. He walked almost to the end of the field, the same number of steps as the last time. He reached the tomb, no crosses, just a stone with her name and candles at the bottom. He sat down cross-legged in front of it. He put the flowers at its feet, lighted the candles with a match, and placed a single eagle feather among the blue bells. 

He settled down and took out his wedding ring from a pocket inside his jacket, tied to a chain, another thing he never left the house without, and placed it on the ground. He stared at the name carved into stone, his eyes watering, tears rolling silently over his cheeks. He took a deep breath.

“Hey, Marilyn...”

He sat down and the hours passed, the day growing darker and darker. He talked to her about his hunts, about the new figures he had carved. He talked to her about Val, what little he knew from magazine clippings and the eventual text he received. He talked to her about everything and nothing. He asked for forgiveness one more time, hoping this time he would get an answer, but like all years, he didn’t. He didn’t drink on October 12th. Not a single drop. He didn’t drive on October 12th. The only thing he did was speak.

And there was no one to reply to him.


	7. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for a graduation and Robert is beaming with joy and pride.

Robert was sitting on a white wooden chair with a bouquet of pink lilies between his legs and a huge smile on his face. He was tapping his feet nervously as the names were called in the front. His seat was behind the rows and rows of students in graduation caps waiting to receive their diploma. He was in his best suit, his face shaved, his hair combed to the side, the smell of cologne strong. He beamed with excitement, he beamed with all the love and pride in the entire world.

Robert looked around the place. It was a large campus, full of trees and tall buildings and murals painted by classes before, by the class waiting in the seats in front of him. The music in the background made him feel at home, even if he would never receive a college diploma, it felt like he was going on the stage too, like he would also come down with honors on his name. People cheered from their seats, holding balloons and flowers and gifts as the students walked up and then down the stairs. They screamed the names of their loved ones, they clapped politely at the others. Robert didn’t politely clap. He waited at the edge of his chair. He was paying attention to the last names, and they were quickly approaching the letter “S”. The only letter that mattered that day, the only letter he cared about when the dean called out name after name after name of people he didn’t care about.

He held the flowers tighter, his grin could probably split his face in two. His hands were shaking. 

“Small...”

He jumped up and yelled, cheering. That was her. That was her girl right there. Perfect GPA, graduating with honors, top of her class. Her graduation gown flowing as she climbed the steps, her hair draping over her shoulders under her cap as she took the diploma and took a medal in a box. She turned to the public and waved her hand towards them with a wide and toothy smile. Robert cheered more, still on his feet, jumping and punching the air with the flowers.

“That is my girl! That is my girl!”

A hand took him by the arm and urged him to sit down, he looked down at the woman by his side. She was smiling at him and shaking her head with a soft laugh.

“Robbie, sit down, you are gonna embarrass her.”

He smiled back and sat down, giving his wife a tender kiss on the cheek.

“I am sorry, honey, I am just so proud of our girl.” 

The woman laughed and the sound of it was like sweet honey, her lips in the most perfect smile that made her eyes wrinkle. He fixed the feather in her hair and looked back to the stage, trying to find his daughter among the crowd. His hand holding Marilyn’s tightly. Then she was back on the stage and he was stopped from jumping back in the air. She had been elected valedictorian of her class, she hadn’t told them that.

Robert listened to the speech, his eyes watering the whole time, he broke down in happy tears when she thanked her parents for being for her every step of the way. She thanked the crowd, the presidium, and she threw her cap on the air as the rest of the seated students did. Robert clapped and cheered until his hands were raw, back on his feet, Marilyn too, wiping her eyes. Their girl was a college graduate. Their girl was the best of the best. Their girl. His daughter. 

The crowd dissipated and he grabbed Marilyn’s arm, searching for Val between the mass of students. He spotted her and yelled. She ran back to them and Robert gripped her tight in a hug, kissing her cheek. Marilyn joined the hug, the three of them with teary eyes. Robert picked up Val and swirled her in the air like once he had picked up Marilyn when she had graduated. 

“My girl has her diploma.” he told her, smiling.

“Dad! Put me down!” she laughed, adjusting back the cap she had picked up before going down the stage.

“I am sorry, dear, your dad is just too damn proud. We both are.” 

Robert looked at the two most important women in his life. His daughter and his wife. Both beautiful, both beaming, both the two things he loved the most in the world. He hugged Val.

“I am so proud, Val. You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

“I know, dad...”

“No, no, you don’t. The day you were born was the happiest day of my life, and after marrying your mother I think this is the next happiest day,” he said and gave her a kiss on the forehead, taking the diploma off her hands and showing it to his wife. He laughed and wiped the tears from his eyes. Marilyn took his hand and he squeezed it, he mouthed an _I love you._ She just smiled, she knew. 

“I love you, Val,” he said, turning back to his daughter, giving her back the diploma and ruffling her hair under the cap “I am never leaving your side.”

Val smiled, the biggest smile possible. “I love y-”

Robert woke up to the sound of Betsy barking in his ear before she could finish the sentence. 

He was in his bed, clutching a bottle of whiskey, the bed was empty except for him and the other side perfectly made and perfectly void. His eyes were teary, the smile on his face faded as he realized where he was. Marilyn was dead, Val was gone in Brooklyn, he had not been invited to her college graduation. He had received a text message and a picture sent from the phone of a girl he didn’t know but he guessed was the one hugging her daughter in the photography. He hugged the bottle like a bouquet of flowers, he gripped the phone like the hand of a woman she loved.

Val smiled at him from the framed picture on the bedside table, the picture he had to cut out from a magazine. He smiled back, a sad smile. His finger lingered over the call button over the highlighted name... he pressed it. The phone rang one time and then he flipped it closed. He closed his eyes and hoped he could go back to his dream and hear her finish the phrase.

_I love you, dad._


	8. A Whiter Shade Of Pale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert sits at the piano, the one no one notices is there, and plays the chords to his wedding day.

Most of the people who walk into Robert’s apartment pay little to no attention to the rooms, to the little details hidden behind the empty bottles, the little fragments that show a life that extends from a glass of whiskey. And he is fine with that. Most of the people who walk into Robert’s path pay little to no attention to who he is, and he is fine with that, for he doesn’t pay much attention either.

Most of the people who have sat on Robert’s couch have never spotted the black unpolished vertical piano in the corner of the room, and that is okay too, and he is fine with that. He plays quietly when no one is around, when the kids are off to sleep or the parents are off at work. He plays the few chords he knows, the few songs he learned in his youth and practiced briefly in his adulthood. The piano had belonged to his father and it had been the wedding present he had given them. 

Robert walked downstairs and towards it with a glass to his lips, the night crawling outside. He sat down and carefully placed the alcohol on top of it, opening at the same time the music sheet with the one song he knew the best and the one he played often, when the urges to do something stupid were too strong. He opened the lid and ran his hand over the white and black keys. He played the first chord.

 

Robert was standing in front of a mirror, nervous as he would ever be, trying to fix the bow-tie around his neck and failing miserably. He sighed and went over his hair, combed to one side with hairspray keeping the strays in place. He had rented the suit, and it was noticeable. A little too big on the shoulders, a little too short on the sleeves. He battled with the tie again until it was set. He breathed out and looked at himself, it wasn’t that bad, was it? He had shaved that morning, he was wearing cologne, the cut over his eyebrow from last week’s stunt was almost completely healed. He felt like he was going to puke. Then two strong hands held him by the shoulders and a man walked behind him and appeared in the reflection.

“Don’t worry, son. You are going to do great. Just go out there and you’ll be fine,” the man said and carefully put a red carnation on his buttonhole, patting him on the chest. “Now, go out there, people are waiting.” 

Robert breathed out and nodded, smiling anxiously. “Thank you, sir.”

 

Robert caressed the keys and he didn’t have to really read the music sheet to know the next chord, the next set of lines. He paused for a second to breathe in, and he started singing in a soft voice, softer even than the music. _“We skipped the light fandango, turned cartwheels 'cross the floor... I was feeling kinda seasick, but the crowd called out for more..”_

Robert shook in his place. The chairs behind him were laid in rows on the grass of the public park, two white wooden arcs at each side adorned with blue and white. He was looking to the front, drumming his fingers against his thighs, when the music started playing. He closed his eyes, smiled and turned around to see her walking up the aisle towards him. She was wearing a simple white dress with laces at the bottom and around the neckline, a beautifully weaved blanket draped across her shoulders, a blue ribbon around her neck, a feather in her hair. She walked in hand of her father, a big man in traditional Cherokee clothes, both sporting huge smiles, a bouquet of blue bells in her hands. Robert’s grin hurt and he could feel a tear or two race down his cheeks. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Her father left her by his side and sat down, and Robert squeezed her hand tightly. They looked at each other, both smiling, both happy, both young and full of life. He barely paid attention to the man in the robe speaking until it was time for the vows.

“I promise to love you every day of my life, even when your pranks are too much or you accidentally punch me in the face while rehearsing for a play. I vow to give my heart to you and only to you, to let you own the royalties of my life from this moment until the day I die. To be the man you expect me to be, that you deserve to have, that you make me want to be. You are the best friend one could ask for, and so you are the best wife. I promise to cherish you, in the day and the night, in New York and New Jersey and even in Atlantic City. For you are the one I choose to grow old with; not even death can do us part, baby.” 

Okay, he wasn’t the best writer, but she laughed and said hers. Now she... she knew her way around words, she knew how to deliver them and how to weave them into palaces and arrows and pierce you through the heart for better or worse. His eyes were teary when the man in the robe proclaimed them husband and wife. They kissed. And smiled against each other lips. And the crowd roared with applause and he could only look at her eyes, black as night, her hair black as the feathers of a crow. They walked down the aisle with their arms hooked, people throwing rice and flowers at them. The sun glowed strong in the sky above them, and it made her smile shine almost as bright as her soul did. Robert was at peace knowing he had everything he ever wished for. 

 

Robert closed his eyes and continued singing through a smile, _“The room was humming harder as the ceiling flew away. When we called out for another drink the waiter brought a tray.”_

 

The party had started and the few people in attendance laughed from their tables, the band played from a little stage near a big tree. Marilyn and him were enjoying some food at their own table, chatting about all the things they would do, all the plays they would go see, all the movies. About one day maybe moving to Los Angeles, about faking their deaths and running away to another country to live like fugitives of their past. They laughed and held hands. They snickered about aunt Agatha who was at this point drunk and hitting on a much younger gentleman, about her grandma who had fallen asleep next to her champagne, about Mary who was holding a glass of wine and loudly arguing with Robert’s older brother about how she could do a backflip if she wanted and beat his ass at arm wrestling even though she was even younger than Robert and Marilyn. 

The wedding singer called for them to open the dance floor. Their first dance. Robert stood up and held his arm for her to take. They walked to the middle, people clapping. They locked eyes. Robert wiggled his eyebrows and she laughed without covering her mouth because there was no need to. The band started playing an old song by Procol Harum _._ They twisted to the soft ballad, slow dancing to the organ and the drums and the calm voice of the singer. They kissed softly, and smiled, and he said _I love you,_ and she didn’t say anything for he knew the answer was the same. And everything was good.

 

Robert continued playing. Opening his eyes, he dropped his hands to his lap and reached for the glass of whiskey, taking a large swig from it, staring at the keys. Staring at the piano that no one noticed, at the music sheet that he didn’t have to read. And then he sang the last verse, the music playing in his head along the memories. 

_“And so it was that later as the miller told his tale, that her face, at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale.”_


	9. A Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas rolls and Robert is alone with his memories and the prospect of someone away opening a box.

Christmas eve had rolled in again and carried with it memories, both good and bad. He knew how he was going to spend the night, the way spend it for years now. But it hadn’t been like that always. He dropped the needle on a record and sat down in front of some presents on the table, the boxes wrapped in newspaper and torn magazine pages. He sighed and took a drink.

 

Growing up they didn’t have much money, and so their christmas dinner was like any other dinner of the year. Sometimes, when business went well, they would go ahead and buy a ham, make some mashed potatoes. His mother, being a guadalupana catholic, always took out of the closet a box with small porcelain pieces and set up a nativity in the living room, next to the tree. There was always a tree. Small, really small, but there was a tree. Underneath it, three boxes wrapped in colorful paper; one for Robert, one for his brother, and one for their parents. 

They served the dinner to the tunes of the radio and they prayed and then they eat. Always at eleven. Always at eleven because at twelve they would sit and open the presents. A VHS tape, a cassette, maybe some socks, a book. Never big presents. But they would open them with joy and Robert hugged his father briefly and then held on to his mother, thanking them. Santa Claus wasn’t real, it had never been, but his dad told them to never reveal the secret to their classmates. Santa didn’t exist because then it would mean two presents for each kid. 

His mother had her own secret savings, which were not really a secret since everybody knew but pretended they didn’t. On January 5th Robert would put his shoe on the window and the next morning the shoe would be filled with candy and next to it a big present. One year he got a bike, and he would ride it to school and back when the day was sunny or he didn’t have money for the bus. Día de Reyes, now _that_ was when the good presents came, when the magic kings -three wise men, three kings, he never knew how to translate it. For him it was _los reyes magos-_ would come by and leave things for them. Of course, one day they were too old to get presents. Fifteen, you didn’t get presents anymore, not from your parents, not from the kings. And then they just ate more than usual because there was more money to buy a turkey or ham or both. And it was okay. 

When Val was born, his mother was dead and the holidays were different in small ways. There were more than three gifts on the tree, there was plenty of food on the table, there was Santa Claus. Some things were the same; the shoe on the window filled with candy, the record or radio playing while they ate. Then, of course, the bad days started coming, and the record played while Marilyn and Val had dinner and he was laughing and drinking at a bar, or he wasn’t sober during dinner and by twelve he was sleeping behind the couch while presents were being opened. Then it was good for a while again… and then it wasn’t again. 

 

Robert sat on his couch and looked at the three boxes. One read _To Dad from Val._ The other just said _To Robert_ , followed by a heart. He took a long swig of whiskey and waited for his watch to strike twelve. He opened the boxes and found a book, a DVD set, a pair of socks, a bottle of scotch.   
He hadn’t received anything in the mail this year (or the last one), the postman didn’t come around with a package. No. He had gone downtown, bought the presents, wrapped them, and put them next to a plant. Pretending they were from somebody else, he drank and feigned surprise and thanked the air, and drank some more. 

He hoped that while he opened the gifts he bought for himself, Val was opening the gift wrapped in colorful paper, sent to her office with no return address or name.   
Just one gift, and no one to put candy on her heels.


	10. Closing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the past, when Val and Marilyn were still around and the bottle had started to replace them more and more.

The whiskey was bitter on his lips at first, then it became sweet honey after the fifth or sixth glass. It came to a point where the sting was non-existent, drinking straight out of the bottle as he laughed and stuffed his mouth with bar peanuts.

Robert was kicking back another bottle of Jack, sitting in a booth at the far end of the bar and chatting with some guys he had met that night around the pool table. They were playing cards, coins and bills on the table, smoking in the tight space and fighting over the drinks. Robert, past drunk, put his whole wallet on the table and called it. The guys laughed, and laughed harder when he frowned as he showed his losing hand. He put his watch on the table and took the bottle away from one of them and drank the last bit, carelessly throwing it away. 

“Hey, hey, at least give me a chance to win it back…” he said and put his ring next to the pile of cards. “It’s gold. Come on.”

The guys looked around each other with grins, drunk, and agreed. The grins went away when Robert took back his ring, wallet, and their money with a smirk. They sat in silence for a moment, he waved the bills in their faces and then asked for two more bottles, which he paid with their money.

“One for me, one for you guys for being good sports,” he said with a genuine smile and laughed. He opened the bottle and drank. The hours passed, they cracked jokes, they managed to get Neil to agree with them fighting for the ownership of a car. Good times. The good drinking nights. 

“So, when are you guys leaving town?” he asked as the bar started to empty, it was only tuesday.

“Tomorrow morning,” replied one of them, his voice slurring, and raised his glass before tipping it back. Robert followed. One of the guys had passed out on the floor. “Heading up until we can’t drive more.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he said and did as he said. 

“Closing time, guys, closing time” yelled Neil at the few people in the place. Robert nodded and stood up, picking up his jacket and throwing it on. 

“You guys have a nice trip. Don’t party too hard. And sober up before driving,” he managed to say, saluting before heading out and patting Neil in the back. 

He walked home staggering, falling several times and singing at the top of his lungs with the remaining of his bottle in one hand until he reached the cul-de-sac. The sun was starting to come out. It was nice outside. It was nice outside… he decided and after falling on his ass in his front lawn he simply passed out next to the Thunderbird’s tire, hugging a bottle with a smile on his face.

The sun kissed his face for some hours, and then the door opened and small steps approached him. Something -someone- blocked the sun and cast a shadow over him. Robert opened his eyes with difficulty and looked up to find a girl with a backpack on, and a sad face stapled to her forehead.

“Heey, honey…” he slurred and tried to sit up, but everything was spinning. “Help your old man up, won’t ya?” he said and lifted an arm, still holding the bottle. Never letting go of it. Val leaned down and pried the alcohol from his hand and angrily threw it towards his pick up. He just winced at the noise. She had tears in her eyes as she stormed off down the sidewalk to school.

Robert grabbed onto the handle of the Thunderbird and slowly sat up. He looked around. Marilyn was at the front door, she shook her head and slammed it shut. He sighed and lifted himself up, opened the passenger seat, and passed out again, inside the car. Not for the first time, and not for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> These are published originally on my RP and ASK blog: [[x]](https://cryptidsdickhunter.tumblr.com/tagged/robert's-life/chrono)  
> If you want to pick up on other headcanons and how they are tied together you might want to check the [STORIES](https://cryptidsdickhunter.tumblr.com/the-truth) section for archived and current RPs. A lot of bits and pieces of his past are spread through different RP's, things mentioned in passing to other characters, including his ethnicity, career, Marilyn's life and death, and more.


End file.
